


100 Themes Challenge - Johnlock Version

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 100 Themes, Angst, Drabbles, F/M, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:38:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>100 short pieces of fiction about the relationship between John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Each piece is written for one of the themes from the 100 themes challenge. Pieces are all written for the same Universe, but are not chronological. Linked with the piece '100 Themes of Mystrade'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically combining the standalone pieces into one document so they're easier to manage. Going to get better about updating these, promise!

John sighed as he sank down into the chair at his desk. The computer was flashing some obscene error message at him and he was too tired to even bother trying to decipher what it meant. The nightmares had kept him up late the previous night and he hadn't quite recovered. They were more vivid than they had been after Afghanistan, although they didn't come as frequently as they did right after - then. John made an audible thunking noise as he let his head fall all the way down to the desk. This wasn't getting his charting done, nor was he seeing patients. He was moping.

It had been two and a half years since...that Day. The Fall. The event that he couldn't think of without it stirring some emotions deep inside him, so he stuffed them as far down as he could. It had taken a year to fully accept that - that he was gone. John lifted his head and let it fall with a thunk onto the desk again. He winced this time - he had hit the edge of the keyboard and it had left a small red mark on his forehead. Pain was good, in a way. It was distracting. It moved his thoughts away from those that were stirred on occasion, after a very bad day or a particularly nasty nightmare that left him awake, alone in his bed, surrounded by sweaty sheets. Lifting his head again, he just about let it drop when the sound of his door opening stopped him. Hurriedly he shifted some papers and appeared to be working. "Yes, hello?"

"Dr. Watson?" A short, petite blonde-haired woman stepped gingerly through the door.

"Yes?" John tilted back a bit in the chair. The woman was dressed like a doctor, in a lab coat and business casual clothes underneath. The outfit fit her quite nicely, actually. The colours were flattering to both her pale skin tone and her contrastingly dark green eyes. A bit nervous, John unconsciously dusted off his trousers and tried to look like the working professional he was.

"Hi, my name is Alicia, and I'm the new doctor they just hired for this surgery." Purposefully, she strode over to John and extended her hand. John eyed the hand for a brief second. He had started to avoid physical contact because every brief touch reminded him of - of him. Shoving the feelings back where they normally were, he smiled and extended his own hand.

"It's very nice to meet you," he said finally. The handshake was brief, and John took a second to examine the rest of her. She was wearing sensible heels, a sensible blouse, a pencil skirt, and a simple necklace with some kind of design that he didn't recognize. Her long blonde hair was done up in whatever fashion was popular that month - some type of bun, he thought. Looking back up, he noticed she had been giving him the same once-over. He smiled again, this time with the corners of his eyes crinkling. "When do you start?"

"Tomorrow," she answered quickly. Realizing she still held his hand she dropped it like she had been holding hot coals. John flexed his fingers a bit before glancing at the clock. It was about time to go, and he wasn't getting much work done regardless. Especially not with that pesky computer error. Sherlock was gone. He was gone for good.

"Would you like to go out for dinner?" John tilted his head and regarded the shorter woman, who merely blinked and then smiled, her emerald green eyes curious. "Not as a date or anything, just kind of a get to know," he clarified.

"Why not?" Alicia smirked a little in return, and John thought he saw a brief hint of scepticism in her glance. "Dinner sounds fantastic. I'm afraid I just moved here and don't know anywhere to go. Do you have any suggestions?"

"Oh, I have several." John reached out and grabbed his cane, the polished handle warm under his grip. It had been a gift from Mike for his last birthday, and John hated what it represented. He caught Alicia's wondering glance and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile. "Old war injury. It bothers me a bit sometimes."

"I see," she said simply. Leading the way, she caught the door and opened it. He grinned ruefully.

"Isn't that my job?"

She chuckled with a slight smirk on her lips. "You can make it up to me at the restaurant."

John grinned at this and took the lead out of the room. He paused at the front desk to let the assistant know about the computer error. This one was new. John's eyes narrowed briefly as the leggy brunette who was fixated on her Blackberry threw a smile his way before returning to her texting. There was something almost familiar about her.

"So where are we going then?" asked Alicia, taking off her white lab coat and hanging it with the others. John did the same.

John smiled. "It's a surprise."

"Oh really." Alicia raised her eyebrows a bit, a smirk finding its way onto her face. John smirked just a little, took her wrist and led her to his car.

"My treat."


	2. Complicated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to explain to Alicia the nature of his relationship with Sherlock - two days after Sherlock has come back.

John morosely picked at the food on his plate. He could feel Alicia watching him over her own plate. Sighing inwardly, he plunked down the fork he had been using to chase the food on his plate and lifted his head a bit to meet her watchful green eyes. He had not been himself the entire evening. How could he be?

Damn him, John thought, and then winced. No, never that. He had just gotten him back. Two days prior, John had arrived home late to 221B Baker Street after meeting with Greg at the pub. When he had arrived home, he had heard someone playing a violin from up in his flat. Armed with his cane, he had gone upstairs, only to see someone he had never thought he’d see again. After that it got a bit - blurry, rather. He had hit Sherlock once. Maybe twice. Maybe a bit more than that. It’d taken quite a while to patch up the bruises. Sherlock had been tentative after that. John had spent most of the evening wrenching an explanation out of him.

His reaction combined with the flood of emotions that had poured out helped him acknowledge that this conversation was inevitable. As much as he liked Alicia and had gotten to know her these past six months - she just wasn’t Sherlock. Sherlock needed him. Who would take care of him; make sure he ate, or anything like that? He just needed a break, to think things through. Wryly he thought of his first date with Sarah. Relationships never worked out with Sherlock involved, because he won every time.

“John?” Alicia’s calm, quiet voice broke through his thoughts, and he started abruptly, nearly tipping the silverware onto the floor.

“Yes?” He looked up at her, forcing himself to smile casually.

“You’ve been very quiet tonight.” Although her eyes remained on his, he watched her fork twirl some alfredo noodles onto it and then be popped into her mouth.

“Er, a bit,” he said. Ruefully he scratched the back of his neck, trying to figure out how to start. “Do you remember, uh, the flatmate we talked about?”

Alicia put down the fork. “The one that passed away?”

“Yes, him.”

“The one you have a shrine to in your flat?”

“That is not a shrine - nevermind,” John huffed. “Well. He’s not, er, dead, apparently.” Alicia leaned back in her chair, her eyes impassive.

“Generally when people die, they stay dead,” she chuckled, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You’ve obviously never met me before.” John resisted the urge to shout when he heard the deep, baritone voice.

“What are you doing here?” He hissed at the curly-headed man who was dragging a chair over to their table.

“John, you are being utterly boring. You were so easy to figure out.” Sherlock huffed and stared at Alicia. John could tell by his expression what he was doing and he braced himself.

“Did you ever think I might want to have this conversation by myself without your help? You gave up any rights to comment on my relationship when you died.” John’s tone was icy and he was glaring at Sherlock. Sherlock fell quiet, trying to figure out what he had done wrong.

“Alicia.” Alicia smiled and extended her hand towards Sherlock, who merely stared at her for a few seconds. Her smile never wavered, although eventually she did drop the hand. “You must be Sherlock.”

“I do hope your father recovers.” Sherlock’s blue-grey eyes were piercing, and even John noticed the slight widening of Alicia’s eyes.

“The doctors say the prognosis is good, but…how did you know?”

“It’s what he does,” John sighed. This conversation was getting worse. How did a hopefully simple talk end up so complicated? “Sherlock.”

“She would have bored you within the year, you know.”

“SHERLOCK!”

“Bit not good?”

“No. Not good.”

Alicia was quiet at this point, watching them back and forth. To John her green eyes appeared almost amused. She pushed her plate back and smiled, although John wasn’t sure why. “It was nice to meet you, Sherlock.”

“Where are you going?” John frowned, reaching for her hand. Alicia shook her head slightly.

“She’s leaving, John.” Sherlock’s face was his normal, composed self, although John thought he could detect a hint of smug superiority.

“What?” Standing, John went to move closer to Alicia, only to be blocked by Sherlock’s tall form. Alicia shook her head.

“I think it’s time we called us off, John.” Alicia’s smile was a little sad and it tugged at the strings of John’s heart.

“But - but I don’t…” John trailed off miserably. He did understand, and that was the hard part. For her to handle this situation with grace, to be able to see what was happening as it happened - she was a far better person than he would ever be. Alicia leaned over and kissed John on the cheek, lingering just a bit.

“If you two don’t work out, give me a call.” She grinned at him one last time, leaving the shell-shocked John sitting there trying to look at anything but Sherlock. Gathering her coat, she walked swiftly out of the restaurant.

Sherlock quickly assumed the spot she had just vacated and summoned a waiter for the menu. Maybe if he ate something and was good, John wouldn’t be mad at him.

That hope was short lived. “SHERLOCK.” John seethed. “What are you doing?”

“Ordering. Really, what does it look like I’m doing?”

John sighed and rubbed his forehead where he felt a stress headache starting to build. “It’s not going to get you off the hook, you know.”

“Good. Then let’s leave.” He reached over and grabbed John’s wrist, towing him out of the restaurant. John allowed him - this time. Although he was a complicated, stubborn man, John had to admit to himself that he liked him just the way he was.


	3. Making History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been a year since Sherlock committed suicide. John has finally gotten the courage to pack all of his things up.

John had to steady himself, grasping the back of the chair briefly as he fought to retain his balance. His limp had come back mere weeks after Sherlock’s death and had got progressively worse. Knowing it was psychosomatic did absolutely nothing to fix it, and he refused to go back to the rubbish therapist. He had avoided the internet as much as possible, particularly the blogosphere. It was still too painful.

Sherlock was gone. He knew it. He had accepted it – yet, it still hurt. A faint smile danced about his lips as he surveyed the wreck that was the main living area of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock’s papers, untouched all these months, still inhabited the majority of the available space. John had resorted to the same chair he had sat in when – when Sherlock was alive. He had left almost everything alone. The only exceptions were the experiments that had started to decay, as Mrs. Hudson had started to complain about the smell. He had even removed the ones from Sherlock’s bedroom, although those were the only things he touched.

Slowly, lovingly John packed away Sherlock’s papers and other assorted belongings from the downstairs into boxes. He wasn’t going to get rid of it – he couldn’t do that. Mycroft was going to come pick up the boxes. John was going to keep Sherlock’s room the way it was – it was part of his history, part of his life. Eventually, maybe, he could move on. He wasn’t ready for that yet. Some things of Sherlock’s outside of his room stayed, like his skull. The last bullet holes in the wall. The way he had the furniture arranged. His violin. He knew Sherlock would laugh at his sentimentality, but he didn’t care. Sherlock wasn’t there to laugh at or with him.

John smiled at some items. He frowned at others. Some made his heart skip a beat. All were reminders of memories they had shared, of their friendship. To John, many were reminders of the love he had had for Sherlock. The love that he had never been able to tell Sherlock about. Not that he minded, of course. He knew Sherlock didn’t take well to pesky things like emotions. Maybe it had been better off that way. Pausing in his sorting, John smiled sadly at the wall. He doubted it.

Three gentle knocks on the door pulled him out of his reverie. Sighing, he limped over and opened it up. Mycroft, dressed in his typical three-piece suit, smiled his frightening smile at him. John just shrugged and walked into the flat. It was still tough for him to deal with Mycroft. He reminded him too much of Sherlock, at times. “Ahh, Dr. Watson. I am here for Sherlock’s possessions?”

“The boxes, yes,” John said, turning and gesturing to the several large boxes in the main living area. He watched, somewhat amused, as several large men in fancy suits came in and picked up the boxes while Mycroft merely stood there, watching John as if he was going to do something interesting. John’s face was sad, his thoughts distant. For all he cared, Mycroft could have been halfway across the street. The boxes disappeared quickly as did the workers, leaving the two in silence. Mycroft cleared his throat, causing John to start.

“Is that all?” Mycroft asked politely. John nodded. The silence dragged on a bit, John staring into space.

“I miss him,” he finally said. He grasped the metal handle of his cane, refusing to look at Mycroft.

“As do I,” Mycroft said after letting the silence drag on for quite a bit. He looked as though it had pained him significantly to say those words. John merely nodded. After a few more seconds of silence, Mycroft turned around and walked out of the flat, closing the door carefully behind him.

John closed his eyes briefly, savouring the sudden silence. Slowly he walked up to Sherlock’s room and opened the door. Besides the decaying experiments, everything was exactly the way it had been left the day Sherlock died. There were so many memories here. Good ones, bad ones. Bittersweet ones. John’s free hand caressed the door, his mind lost in the past. The Fall had been the worst thing that had happened to him. A year later, and he still missed him desperately.

What pained him the most was the sacrifices that Sherlock had made. The things he had said before he died – that he had lied. That he couldn’t do what he did. Things that John knew were utterly ridiculous. Sherlock could have done so much good if he had lived, and he had – John stiffened in anger – he had thrown it away. The tension passed eventually as John stood in the doorway, just watching and remembering. Slowly he backed away and closed the door. He would talk to Mycroft. Mycroft would make it so that Sherlock could be remembered as a good person. History needed heroes – maybe Sherlock could be one.


	4. Rivalry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, Sherlock, you cannot continue to blow up the flat. Basically a day in John’s life with some fluffy, friendly banter. Set a couple months after John and Sherlock get together.

“No, Sherlock.”

“John, that’s so boring!”

“I said no. Eat your breakfast.”

“Boring.” John could hear Sherlock huffing and throwing himself on the couch, although his back was to the man. John sighed as he stirred the eggs, making sure they were cooking evenly.

“Mrs. Hudson threatened to have us evicted after the last experiment you did blew up. Do you want to repeat that?”

“I did get rather good results, you know.”

“Or you would have, if you hadn’t blown them up.”

“Details, John. Details.”

John snorted, scrambling the eggs further and dividing them evenly into bowls. He sighed and shifted the balance so more were in his bowl. He was hungry this morning, and it would be a fight to get Sherlock to eat. It was every morning.

Being the astute military man he was, John was able to refrain from using the frying pan to beat the sneaky six-foot consulting detective who snuck up on him and wrapped his arms teasingly around his waist. It was a hard-won battle, however. “Sherlock!”

“Yes?” he purred, his arms firmly wrapped around the stockier man who was standing by the sink.

“I’m still going to make you eat your breakfast, you know.” John turned slightly in Sherlock’s grasp to eye him. Sherlock huffed, grabbed his bowl and stalked to the table, sitting down in a flurry of papers. John turned about and picked up his own bowl, standing by the sink and watching Sherlock eat the food as fast as he could.

“Boring, John,” Sherlock declared, slamming the empty bowl down on the table and stalking off to his room. John merely shook his head and picked up the bowl, bringing it back to the sink where he proceeded to wash the dishes. With Sherlock in one of his moods, John never  
knew what the day would bring. It could be anything from a day full of cases to a day full of absolutely nothing. It had been a year since Sherlock had come back into John’s life, and merely a couple months since they had declared themselves as the thing everyone had assumed them to be – a couple.

Sherlock was still tentative about their relationship, in a way. While he embraced his side of it, he sometimes worried that John wasn’t happy, or wasn’t getting enough out of it. These episodes amused John while at the same time warming his heart. Sherlock wasn’t one much  
for feelings, so when he did worry, John knew it was genuine.

Walking over to the table, John took his normal spot, where his laptop was crammed into the small space that was free of Sherlock’s belongings. The chemistry set was starting to bubble again, which was slightly concerning. John wasn’t exactly sure what was in there. Most of  
the chemicals came from Mycroft, and John was honest with Sherlock in that he didn’t really want to know exactly what they were. Sometimes it was better for all involved that John didn’t know what body parts and chemicals were being utilized for the various experiments in their flat.

John glanced over at the counter and walked over to grab the notes he had made from the most recent case they had solved.. He had missed blogging and was glad that the fuss over their relationship had calmed down, as the resulting traffic had crashed his blog several times over. “Sherlock, your test tubes are starting to move on their own!” John called. He did not want to be caught in the cross-fire when they exploded. With Sherlock, lately, it was a when, not an if. Apparently Mycroft had intercepted a shipment of particularly explosive chemicals and Sherlock had wiggled his way into getting his hands on some of the more dangerous ones.

That had led to a particularly colorful explosion a couple weeks ago. That had ended with DI Lestrade having to spend three hours quizzing Sherlock and John about the nature of his experiments until he determined that it was indeed Sherlock who caused the explosion and not someone who had a more nefarious reason. Even Mrs. Hudson had been interviewed. The  
fuss was enough that she had threatened to evict them if they blew up part of the flat again. While John took it seriously, he doubted that Sherlock did. Sherlock never did.

John was typing and consulting his notes occasionally when he felt arms slide around his shoulder and a nose poke itself in his ear. “Hello,” he murmured, still mostly distracted. A scent caught his notice and he frowned. “Were you burning something in there?” The arms and face  
withdrew rather quickly.

“Oh, of course not.” John turned around to see Sherlock checking out his clothes and twisting a part of his lapel to hide a burnt part of his top. His eyebrows rose.

“Oh really,” John said, fighting to keep a straight face.

“Of course not.” Sherlock fought to maintain a serious expression and failed. He shrugged, almost not sure if John was mad at him or not. It was times like these that he got tentative around John, never sure if he was offended or not.

John stood up and smiled. He wrapped an arm around the taller man’s neck and kissed him gently on the cheek. Their relationship was still new, the gestures minimal, yet he could feel Sherlock relax under the half-embrace. Too late he felt Sherlock’s muscles shift under his clothes before he was the one pinned to the wall, Sherlock kissing him, moving easily against his mouth.

Two could play at this game, John thought. He shifted his stance slightly enough to tilt Sherlock off balance and counter attacked, leaving Sherlock’s mouth to trail kisses up and down his jaw line as his fingers teasingly traced the high cheekbones. Slowly John stopped, satisfied. He was feeling better, as was Sherlock, their argument that morning soothed – for now. John knew they would repeat the same steps, the same dance the following day.

John was caught off guard when Sherlock quickly grasped him and tipped him over onto the couch. Damn him and his height. Sherlock grinned wickedly at him and nibbled gingerly on his lip before hopping off, standing John up and making a show out of straightening his mussed jumper. Quite pleased with himself, he grinned cheekily and headed over to his room. John watched him go, a bit surprised at the give and take, the rivalry between them when it came to outdoing each other. John was careful to only go as fast as Sherlock was comfortable with. “I’m still taking that Bunsen burner, you know!” he yelled him, dusting off his own clothes.

“Boring, John!” Shaking his head, John trudged after his friend. Didn’t want him burning down the house this time.


	5. Unbreakable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock dealing with John’s nightmares and the guilt he feels at hurting someone he cares about. Post-Reichenbach, close to six months after Sherlock has returned.

Sherlock ghosted through the door to 221B Baker Street and up to the flat. It was late, probably 3am. John was likely asleep, like a normal person, and Sherlock didn’t want to wake him. Having made his way to the living room, Sherlock removed his coat and scarf and hung them up. The flat was quiet, something Sherlock enjoyed.

It still felt strange some days to enter the flat. He had been back in London with John for six months now . Sherlock was forever surprised how quickly John had forgiven him. The first few months had been rough. Sherlock had felt quite a bit of an emotion he had hoped to never feel - guilt. Sleeping in the room downstairs and being woken up by John’s high-pitched screaming was an experience he hoped to never repeat. Sherlock shoved the thoughts out of his mind. They were thoughts his mind brought up only when there was nothing better to focus on. Not that John wasn’t something enjoyable to focus on, however. John was his blogger, his companion, his - not going there. Two minutes was his limit for emotional thoughts and that had passed thirty seconds ago.

Sherlock froze mid-step, about to head upstairs. There was high-pitched whimpering coming from John’s room. Recognizing it as the prelude to many of John’s tormented nightmares, Sherlock took a chance and darted up the stairs. If he woke John up now, hopefully he wouldn’t scream quite as loudly as he usually did.

He made it to the top of the stairs before the screaming began. Sherlock’s hand froze on the door handle. There were words this time, words interspersed with the screams. Slowly the more rational part of his brain forced him to open the door. Sherlock was frozen, unable to move out from between the frame of the door.

John was tossing back and forth, his limbs thrashing about. “No,” he moaned, a pillow slipping onto the floor. Sherlock was fixated on his rapidly moving form, transfixed and for not the first time in his life uncertain of what to do. How could he make it better? “Sherlock...” Sherlock jolted back at the sound of John’s voice saying his name, nearly slipping on the top of the stairs. “Please, God, let him live...” John was sobbing and screaming intermittently in his sleep now, the thrashing worse than it was.

Sherlock was able to force himself a few steps forward. He wanted to do something. Anything. Anything was better than standing and watching John sob like his heart had been ripped out of his chest. “John,” he said softly, uncertain of what to do.

“God, no...Sherlock, you can’t leave me.” Sherlock took another step forward. Worry was not an emotion he had been experienced with until John. Until now. “Sherlock, I love you...you can’t leave me.” Sherlock froze, his eyes widening until he was certain there was no more room on his face. A crash and John’s cry of pain pulled him out of the reverie he was in and Sherlock felt himself gravitating to John’s side.

“John?” Sherlock asked, his voice showing far too much emotion for his comfort. He didn’t know what to do. He was rubbish at these things, these pesky, pesky emotions. All he knew was that John was hurting and that he needed to do something about it. That - that John loved him, whatever that meant. He would think about that later.

“Mm, Sherlock?” John was rubbing his eye with his hand, groggy but awake. The crash had been John falling off of his bed and hitting the floor. John had pushed himself up enough to see that Sherlock was crouched down next to him. Blinking a few times, the sandy-blonde haired man peered blearily at the taller man. Then he frowned. “How did I get on the floor?” He rocked backwards, moving to sit cross-legged.

“You fell,” Sherlock said, trying to cope with what had happened. While he was relieved that John was okay (which was, of course, the only logical response), Sherlock was not pleased with the way his body had reacted to John’s cry of pain. His heart was thumping abnormally fast and he felt a bit short of breath. He also had the irrational desire to hug his friend. He cleared his throat. “Are you okay?”

“Hmm, yeah.” John reached out a hand to grasp Sherlock’s shoulder, pushing himself into a standing position. He frowned as he noticed the state of his bed, and then realized what had happened. Scratching the back of his head, he paused, trying to think of how to ask Sherlock why he was there without seeming too obvious.

“Good.” Sherlock’s voice seemed a bit hesitant, even to Sherlock himself. John looked up at him, surprised. Unable to help himself, Sherlock reached out and wrapped his arms firmly around the shorter man, holding him in a grip that John found a bit painful.

“Erm, Sherlock, that hurts,” John said, surprised but pleasantly so. He wrapped his own arms around Sherlock in return, breathing in his friend’s scent. Sherlock was warm, delightfully so, and he felt solid and comfortable in John’s grasp.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock murmured into his hair. He lessened his grasp just a bit. He was sorry. He was sorry for so many things, even things John may never know. He was sorry for leaving him. For not being there when he needed him. For not comforting him when he was sad. For not realizing that he cared for him sooner, not realizing that he needed this man. Sherlock would spend the rest of his life, in his mind, making up for all the things he had done wrong. Until he forgot, of course. Then he would come to his senses and be properly sorry again.

“Are you okay?” John pulled back a bit, bleary eyed. His pyjamas were a bit sweaty from the nightmares and the thrashing. “I’d like to change, and probably need to change the sheets.” He looked at the bed with some minor distaste.

“Of course.” Sherlock forced a smile. “Wait here.” Leaving a shocked half-awake John at the top of the stairs, Sherlock walked down to the linens cabinet Mrs. Hudson kept and retrieved a clean set of sheets for John’s bed. He walked back upstairs and stood in the doorway, a slight frown on his face. He knew where to get the sheets, but he had deleted how to make a bed from his memory. John had already changed into new pyjamas, he noted with interest.

Warm, gentle hands took the sheets from him and sat them on the dresser. John quietly stripped the sheets from his bed and handed them to Sherlock, who walked them downstairs to the laundry. When he got back upstairs, John had made his bed and was sitting on it. Sherlock stood in the door frame awkwardly, not sure what to say. He was certain John had no idea what he had said while he was asleep, and probably assumed it was similar to his previous nightmares.

“I can stay with you until you sleep,” Sherlock said, cutting John off when he opened his mouth. John closed his mouth, watching Sherlock thoughtfully, his eyes frustratingly unreadable. John simply nodded and laid down on the bed. Sherlock watched him for a moment before settling down on a chair next to the bed. He watched as John extended a hand out to him, and hesitated only briefly before extending his own. Their hands twined well together, almost as if they were made to do so. Daring, Sherlock reached down and briefly touched his forehead to John’s, his eyes closed, trying to communicate how very sorry he was. John almost never had nightmares anymore, and when he did, it was when Sherlock got home later than he was supposed to.

“G’night,” John mumbled sleepily, caressing Sherlock’s hand with his thumb, half asleep already. Sherlock merely smiled, watching him as he drifted off to sleep. Watching his breathing settle and become more even, he leaned over and kissed the sandy-haired man gingerly on his forehead, unlocking their hands as he did so. Silently he turned around and walked down to his couch. He had a lot to think about. He needed a plan.


	6. Obsession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Sherlock is bothering Lestrade about a case, John finds himself the subject of some not-so-friendly ribbing from Sally and the others.

“How’s the Freak?” John looked over to see Sally Donovan standing leaning against a counter, a mug of tea in her hands.

“He’s fine, thank you.” John forced himself to smile briefly before his gaze flittered back to the office in which Sherlock stood. He was arguing with Lestrade. John could see the long, pale hands flying through the air as Sherlock gestured emphatically.

“Just fine?” Sally raised her eyebrows. John grimaced inwardly, trying to plaster the fake smile on his face. “What, you two have a row?”

“No, of course not,” John said automatically, trying not to think of the argument they had gotten into over breakfast. It had taken quite a bit of willpower for John to agree to come to Lestrade’s office. He would have much rather stayed at home and avoided Sherlock for the rest of the day. “Why do you ask?”

A slight smirk played about Sally’s lips and John cursed inside. “Well, on average, you mention him fifty seven times when you’re in this office.”

“No I don’t.” John narrowed his eyes at the curly-haired woman, arms crossed defensively over his chest. He had worn a particularly colorful jumper today. It had been a gift from one of his last girlfriends, a fact Sherlock had made fun of mercilessly. He wasn’t quite sure what possessed him to wear it. Possibly stubbornness.

“Yes you do. What did you have for breakfast?” John blinked, a bit thrown off, but game nonetheless.

“I scrambled some eggs and made some porridge, but Sherlock - oh.” John’s voice trailed off, having realized Sally was right. “Fifty seven times, eh?” he asked.

“It’s more closer to the weekends,” a brown-haired male detective added from next to Sally.

“Yes, that’s closer to a hundred,” another one said. This one was blonde, with long curly hair, and female. John just glared at them. Blonde-hair smirked and turned back to her work.

“So what’s it like, living with him?” Sally leaned back against the counter, sipping her tea.

“Living with Sherlock?” John asked, his brain running a bit behind.

“No,” Sally drawled, “Living with the president.”

“It’s not bad,” John said, determinedly cheerful. The voices from Lestrade’s office continued to escalate, and John winced. “He can be stubborn sometimes.”

“So that’s what they’re calling it, now,” Sally said, her voice amused.

“What?” John spluttered, almost choking on his tongue.

“Oh come on, we all know you’re together.” Sally rolled her eyes, drinking the last dregs of her tea.

“I’m not gay,” John replied automatically, blinking a bit. The door to Lestrade’s office opened and Sherlock strode out.

“We’re done,” Sherlock said, not pausing as he walked by John.

John tipped his head towards Sally and the amused police officers. “See you later.”

“Go and have a nice snog,” Sally advised, her grin wicked. “Might up his mood. And other things.”

John turned on his heels and walked rapidly out of the police station after Sherlock. If he was lucky, the taller man had been out of earshot the entire time. Sherlock’s hearing was nearly as acute as his mind, although he didn’t process colloquialisms quite as well. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice the faint blush on John’s cheeks from Sally’s ridiculous words.

Ridiculous. John shook his head as he got into the cab with Sherlock, the blush deepening just a bit as he accidentally brushed against Sherlock’s arm. What had gotten into him? “John?” John nearly jumped out of his skin at Sherlock’s voice.

“Yes?” John responded, his voice more breathy than he preferred. Breathing was a priority right now.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock’s ice-blue eyes were sharp and John tensed a bit.

“Yes, of course.” John crossed his arms over his chest. Sherlock looked at him as if he wanted to say something, but didn’t. The rest of the car ride passed in silence. The two men got out of the cab (John last, of course, to pay the cab driver) and walked into their flat. Sherlock went straight to his room. John sighed and sunk down into the chair.

Did he really think that much about Sherlock? He was so used to Sherlock being right about statistics that he hadn’t even questioned Sally’s count. Tallying up how many times he had thought about something involving Sherlock so far that day, he realized it likely wasn’t too far off from the actual total. It was a depressing thought.

Friends, he thought. They were friends. John was Sherlock’s only friend. Sherlock needed him. How much John needed Sherlock was a question he was not ready to ask himself.

Sighing, John got up and made two cups of tea. Leaving one on the counter, he walked over to Sherlock’s room and knocked on the door . It opened with a creaking noise, and John made a mental note to look into it. It may not bother Sherlock, but it was annoying enough that John wanted to fix it before it bothered Mrs. Hudson or himself. “Tea?”

“Put it over there.” Sherlock gestured aimlessly to the table, his violin in his hands. John did so, pausing to watch him for a couple seconds as Sherlock noted down some music notes on the sheets in front of him. Watching for a couple moments longer, John noted that Sherlock made no eye contact and made a point of not looking at him. So it was that kind of mood, then.

John walked back to the kitchen and sipped his cooling cup of tea. Life with Sherlock was never boring. It did come with questions he did not want to deal with. Those questions, however, could always be put off. He didn’t need to deal with them now.

Feelings complicated things, and things were complicated enough. John sipped his tea with a smile. Yes, putting things off was truly the right decision.


	7. Eternity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John attempts to have a discussion about the status of their relationship and gets propositioned in a way he had not seen coming. Set late 2016.

“Sherlock, we need to talk.” John looked up at his boyfriend, watching a familiar mask settle over the taller man’s features. “Yes, I know you don’t want to.”

Sherlock’s face was the carefully neutral mask he wore whenever John brought up feelings or something he did not particularly want to talk about that day. John was getting better at reading the emotions under the mask, however, and could tell that Sherlock was a bit apprehensive. The few talks John had been successful in having with Sherlock had consisted of the details of various milestones in their relationship. Sherlock had came as close as he did to worrying about John’s happiness and his ability to cope with Sherlock’s behavior and had actually prompted their second talk. Sherlock often had resorted to distracting John using physical means, promptly ending the conversations John had began. It had been about a year since they had gotten together, and while John was more secure in their relationship he knew some things could still set Sherlock on edge.

Sherlock cleared his throat, drawing John’s attention back to his face. “This isn’t about the one-year thing, is it? I did warn you not to expect sentimentality.”

John rolled his eyes, noticing that Sherlock relaxed minutely as he did so. “I know exactly what to expect from you when it comes to sentiment, Sherlock.”

“Good.” Sherlock’s voice left John with the impression that he did not understand what else there was to talk about. John smiled slightly, and chuckled as he noticed Sherlock’s eyes narrow. Although Sherlock’s deducing skills had improved greatly over the past year when it came to their relationship, there were still times where Sherlock got frustrated by the nuances he missed - or simply had not known existed. His knowledge of human behavior was vast, but not without holes.

It was fun watching Sherlock get antsy, John thought, his hands steepled under his chin. He watched Sherlock intently. Sherlock stared back for a bit, and John could tell he was trying to deduce what John was doing. John had to fight to maintain a serious expression. “Whatever you are doing, John, I don’t like it.”

“I’m not doing anything.” The corners of John’s eyes crinkled in silent mirth. Reading Sherlock’s body language and realizing he was about to have a fit, John relaxed slightly into the chair he was sitting in. His hands went to the arms of the chair and his posture became more open. It was fascinating how Sherlock’s posture reacted to John’s. Tension seemed to leave Sherlock’s body, although underneath the calm mask on his face there was still some suspicion. John smiled. The silence continued to drag on, John thinking of how best to phrase what he wanted to talk about.

Sherlock stood up, freezing the words in John’s partially open mouth. John’s eyes narrowed. Sherlock getting up randomly and walking purposefully was rarely a good sign, especially when John was trying to initiate a Serious Conversation. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock bent down in front of an extremely skeptical John. His piercing blue eyes were slightly mocking, his grin possessed by just a hint of wickedness. John’s hands tightened on the arms of the chair as Sherlock leaned in and his body tensed up. Sherlock ghosted his mouth over John’s, ending up by John’s ear. “What are you doing?” John’s body tensed up at Sherlock’s voice. The cadence was low and sexy, gently teasing. John found it incredibly attractive. This was a fact that Sherlock knew and enjoyed using to his advantage.

“Sherlock, what are you doing - no, this is a serious conversation!” John squirmed under Sherlock, uncomfortable.

“What kind of serious?” Sherlock moved his face until he was an inch away from John’s. John could feel Sherlock’s breath on his lips and it was making him dizzy. He was so tense that he flinched when Sherlock’s lips touched his. Without thinking he kissed the taller man back. He could feel Sherlock smirk against his lips.

“What! Sherlock!” John leaned back in his chair, away from Sherlock’s intense gaze and his admittedly soft lips. “No, none of this. Serious conversation.” Sherlock curved the edges of his lips suggestively and leaned in again. John placed a finger on the curly-haired man’s lips. “No.”

Sherlock settled back on his heels between John’s legs. He swept his eyes up and down John’s body before turning his piercing eyes on John’s darker ones, insistent. John recognized this look and sighed. To Sherlock, John saying no was a game. Despite John’s insistence on seriousness, John realized it might be futile to expect Sherlock to pay attention. “Fine.” Sherlock huffed and sat cross-legged in front of John. John stifled a whimper, as the position wasn’t much better than the one Sherlock had just vacated.

“We have to talk about the future, Sherlock.” John tried to school his expression into a serious one. He didn’t have much success. Sherlock’s hair was mussed and his lips slightly parted. His pupils had dilated slightly and he had just a hint of a flush high on his cheekbones. His gaze was wandering occasionally over John’s body, lingering occasionally in places John felt were highly inappropriate when they were trying to have a Discussion.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The future is boring, John.”

“We need to have a plan in place in case one of us is injured, or incapacitated. Hospital visitation rights, the works.” John swallowed. One of Sherlock’s hands had moved and was tracing small designs on John’s cheek.

“That’s boring, John.” Sherlock’s voice was soft, sensual. John had to swallow several times before he was able to speak. Sherlock was doing it on purpose.

“It’s not boring,” John forced out. Sherlock was inching closer and was proving to be quite the distraction. John was starting to squirm under the intense gaze. While Sherlock had never been shy about the physical parts of their relationship, John was a bit more careful out of concern for Sherlock’s level of comfort.

“Make Mycroft do the paperwork. He likes it.” Sherlock’s nose nudged John’s cheek before leaning in to kiss the corner of John’s mouth. He trailed across to kiss the other side of John’s mouth, teasing.

“Sherlock,” John said, attempting to sound angry. Sherlock smirked before leaning in and pressing a chaste kiss to John’s mouth.

“Call Mycroft, make him do the paperwork.” Sherlock sat back on his heels and looked at John. The mask was gone, and Serious Sherlock had settled in.

John blinked several times. “Did you just agree to marry me?”

“Sentiment, John,” Sherlock scoffed. John sat back on his heels, trying to assimilate what had just happened. Sherlock made a show out of rolling his eyes. “You heard me, John. Paperwork is paperwork. Make Mycroft do it.”

John sat, and blinked. Yet apparently life had not changed, and his six-foot, sometimes unfeeling, emotionally stunted companion had apparently proposed. Marriage. John was broken out of his thoughts by Sherlock’s lips on his. “Stop thinking,” Sherlock advised. He grabbed John’s wrist, and the conscious part of John was aware he was being dragged in the direction of their bedroom. Sherlock had insisted on using John’s original bedroom as their bedroom, maintaining the downstairs bedroom as a center for Sherlock’s things and experiments.

John decided he could worry about what Sherlock had said later. If what Sherlock had said was true, then they had the rest of their lives to worry. He grinned at the thought and took allowed himself to be led. Problems could always be put off.


	8. Gateway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is visiting the residence of Mummy Holmes for the first time. On their way through the estate, Sherlock gets sidetracked and insists there is something he has to do first.

“Are you kidding me, Sherlock?” John’s mouth hung slightly open as he gaped at the huge gateway in front of him. The pillars were twice as tall as John and half as thick, surrounding a huge gate built with thick steel bars.

“No.” Sherlock’s mouth was twisted into a sour expression, his arms crossed as they rode towards the intercom. Sherlock tapped some numbers into the keypad and submitted to a brief retina scan before the gate swung open. John blinked before allowing himself to settle back in his seat, gaping at the gardens they were passing. It was his first visit to the major Holmes estate, and although he had not been terrified initially, he wondered if he should have been. Sherlock’s Mum had apparently gotten word that John and Sherlock were in town on a case and decided that it was the perfect time for a social visit.

“It’s huge,” John said. Sherlock made a point out of rolling his eyes in a hugely exaggerated motion and John shook his head slightly. “Remember? Best behavior. You promised.”

Sherlock made a disgusted noise low in his throat before leaning forward and tapping on the partition between them and the driver. The car slowly came to a stop and Sherlock opened the door and gestured for John to follow. John did, obedient as usual, although he paused halfway out to realize they were still a considerable distance from the entrance to the house. Sherlock slapped a hand down on the boot of the car as soon as John was safely outside of it and watched it drive towards the driveway leading to the house. Grabbing John’s hand, Sherlock dragged him in the direction of what appeared to be a never-ending line of tall hedges. John was about to protest when he noted a break in the leafy green bushes. Sherlock gently pulled him through to the other side and kept going, never letting go of John’s wrist.

“Sherlock,” John said, his voice soft yet insistent. There was no answer from the taller man, who merely kept walking as if John had not said anything. John attempted to dig his heels in but failed. He continued to follow Sherlock instead of being dragged. He took a moment to appreciate their surroundings. It was some type of forest - the trees were tall and leafy, casting gentle shadows on the dark forest floor. Although John wasn’t sure what kind of trees they were, he’d put a significant amount of money on them being rare or one of a kind. This was residence of a Holmes. He smiled, hearing the songs of birds and the chatter of other small animals - squirrels, perhaps.

Sherlock’s pace increased and John frowned slightly. Something was going on and Sherlock was not giving him enough signals to guess what it could be. Although Sherlock had kissed him last week, their relationship was still new and John was not exactly sure where the boundaries were. He was afraid that pushing Sherlock too far would have negative repercussions for both of them. “Alright,” he assented, allowing Sherlock to pull him along. Sherlock stopped at this, turning back briefly to make eye contact and then swept his gaze up and down John’s body. John stared back, giving as good as he got, before Sherlock turned back and kept going.

“I think the house is in the other direction,” John offered helpfully. Although Sherlock did not look down at him, John could see the corners of his mouth quirk in a smile.

“Yes, it is.” Sherlock paused, allowing John a breath while he quickly surveyed the circle of trees in which they stood. He walked over to one, carefully examining some marks carved into the trunk. A faint smile danced about his lips and John watched, entranced. Sherlock was beautiful on a normal day, even when lounging about the flat in his pyjamas. Surrounded by green in what was probably a forest at some point, the filtered light hit his body in just the right ways, accentuating his face in ways John had not known possible.

Sherlock reached out and grasped John’s wrist again, towing him off in a different direction. John followed, willingly this time. Trust was immediate and explicit between the two. Slowly Sherlock’s stride slowed, and eventually stopped. John halted when Sherlock threw out an arm in front of his chest. John looked quickly over at his friend, watching a slow smile spread over his normally serene face. Turning his gaze to match Sherlock’s, he had to refrain from gasping aloud.

They were standing in front of a small, natural waterfall with a small pond at the bottom. The waterfall’s pond seemed to disappear underground and emerge into a shallow creek just a few feet away. The running water surprised John, as he had not heard it as they approached. He credited himself with the thought that Sherlock was rather distracting, especially when he was showing off. They were surrounded by large, dark green trees and the ground was covered in soft, gentle green moss. Sherlock let go of John’s wrist and took a few small steps forward, his hand tentatively reaching out and touching a large rock near the base of the small pond. John’s eyes were on Sherlock now, warm and willing to understand. He had obviously brought John here for some reason - what was on John’s mind was finding out why. All in good time, of course.

“I used to come here a lot.” Sherlock’s voice caught a bit and he took a step back, turning to face John and visibly steeling himself. His chin rose up to its normal level and he looked down at John as if assuring John that he was about as composed as he could get.

“As a child, you mean?” John asked, crossing his arms, watching Sherlock intently. Sherlock’s chin dipped a fraction, and John smiled.

“Yes. The waterfall was larger, then, but it -” Sherlock hesitated, then continued. “It helped clear my mind, in a way. Especially when this spring is cold, it helps accelerate thought, and the rhythm - sometimes it felt like a heartbeat.” His glance at John was pained, and John smiled reassuringly. Sherlock shook his head briefly and closed his eyes, opening them moments later to fix them on a seemingly high point of the waterfall. “I thought...you might like to see it here.”

John started, although he did his best to not show a physical reaction. This, above all, showed how much Sherlock valued the relationship beginning and solidifying between the two men. “I love it here,” he said simply. Although he had been there mere moments, it was true. It was peaceful. He could imagine Sherlock as a child valuing the place for its simplicity, for its refuge from the constant problems he faced, from the mind that constantly plagued him with thoughts that were considered unwelcome by the majority of the population. Wincing in sympathy, he took a few steps forward and drew level with his friend. Sherlock looked back at him, startled, but he relaxed when John slipped an arm around his waist and drew him close with minimal effort.

“I do, too.” Sherlock voiced the words slowly, as if it was a novel thought to him to agree with someone’s opinions. John felt his body shift slightly closer and he hid a half-smile. “We should get going.” Sherlock’s voice was firmer, although John swore he heard a hint of reluctance. This time Sherlock did not grab John’s wrist but instead took his hand, twining the fingers together slowly so that their hands were firmly clasped together. 

“Not going back the way we came?” John asked, tilting his head in the direction they had came from.

“There’s a small gate this way that leads straight into Mummy’s,” Sherlock answered quietly. His pace was far more leisurely and John smiled. Sherlock had taken the time and the effort to share something intensely personal with him, and the thought pleased him to no end. Stroking their combined hands with his thumb, John followed Sherlock through the gateway and towards Mummy Holmes’ house. Surely she could not be that bad.


	9. Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When John loses a patient he thought was going to beat the odds, he’s forced to realize he’s ultimately human. Set post-Reichenbach by a year and a half.

John shifted his weight from one foot to another, his deep blue eyes focused on Sherlock’s lithe form not too far from him. The taller man was bent over the bloody body on the floor, his small, hand-held magnifying glass whirling with his hands as he examined and deduced. Although the scene never failed to intrigue John, he couldn’t help but let his mind wander. Pulling his mobile out of his pocket, he checked for messages and frowned when he saw there was nothing new.

Doctors were not supposed to get attached to their patients, as a rule. As with all rules, there were exceptions. Eric was one such exception. A brilliant young man - admittedly, not on Sherlock’s level, but who was - he had been born with a heart defect that had required monthly checkups in the years since it had been surgically fixed. Although it had not drastically affected his life, it required careful monitoring for future problems and was likely to shorten his overall lifespan. When he had come in for his monthly check up just a few days ago, John had felt an abnormal mass during his palpitation and had referred him for more tests. Discovering an abnormally low level of oxygen-transporting red blood cells, John had immediately referred Eric to the local hospital for blood transfusions and further testing. He had not said it out loud, but John had suspected that Eric was bleeding into his abdomen somehow. His NHS doctor, someone John had worked with long ago, had promised to keep John updated. As John had seen him every month for several years now, he knew far more than the doctors at the hospital would.

John flipped back through his message inbox, his eyes grave. There was the message from John’s colleague, sent only fifteen minutes prior.

“Stomach cancer. Stage IV. Terminal. Six months left, tops.”

His stomach twisted in pity and he slid the mobile back in his pocket. He had texted back, asking for the tests to be done again, for confirmation. Eric had beaten so many obstacles. To succuumb to cancer would not only be ironic, but devastating to his loyal family that had stood by him throughout his many health battles.

“John?” John started, forcing his eyes to focus again as he looked up to find Sherlock had taken a step closer to him. The man’s piercing blue eyes were narrowed slightly. John could guess that it was not the first time that his name had been called, as even Lestrade was staring at him with a slight amount of concern.

Shoving his emotions aside like a good doctor, he smiled his normal smile. “Yes?”

“Are you okay?” Lestrade asked, taking a step closer. Sherlock looked John up and down and, apparently satisfied that John was indeed okay, returned to his examination of the body.

“I’m fine, yes.” John smiled affably. “Just a bit tired. Had to keep up with that one and all.” Lestrade stared at him a bit more before turning his gaze back to Sherlock, who had settled down into a crouch and was staring fixedly at the deep gashes in the woman’s stomach.

Abruptedly[,] Sherlock straightened. “You’re looking for a lover. Probably someone who worked at the hospital, had some knowledge of anatomy, as the gashes are rather deep and appear to be made using some kind of surgical implement.” He peered briefly at the body and then shrugged. “Boring. Mid-thirties, some kind of businessman, and he owns two cats.”

Before Lestrade could speak, John’s phone rang. Glancing down at the number, he immediately pulled out his mobile and walked away from the scene - away from Sherlock. “Hello?” he asked breathlessly.

“John? It’s Aaron Meo, Eric’s oncologist.”

“Did you do the tests?” John stopped where he was standing. If Sherlock was done, he might be able to swing by and visit Eric a bit by himself before having to return home to Baker Street to his cranky boyfriend. If this case was the best Lestrade could do, John was in serious trouble.

“I’m actually calling for another reason,” the doctor responded regretfully. John felt his stomach clench tightly. “Look, Eric hasn’t contacted you or anything, has he?”

“No - why? What happened?” John gripped his mobile tighter, his knuckles white. His brow was furrowed and he could feel Sherlock at the edge of his senses. Pointedly he took a few steps farther away, his body hunching in on itself.

“He stole one of the nurse’s mobiles and disappeared, about five minutes ago. Security footage is still being checked, but due to his condition, we doubt he left the building.” Dr. Meo’s voice was hitched with just a bit of worry, and it was enough to worry John.

“Did you tell him what the tests had said?” John’s free hand was starting to unconsciously rub his forehead and he leaned against the wall for more support. His mind was racing rapidly. If they were lucky, Eric had merely snuck off for some solitude away from the medical professionals. He didn’t want to think about what had happened if they were unlucky.

“Yes, not too long after I texted you. He seemed to take it pretty well.” Dr. Meo’s voice was faintly surprised. John’s heart stumbled, surging as the adrenaline sent images flashing before his eyes. Eric’s changed demeanor, the last time they had talked. The brief joke about what would happen if it turned out to be bad. All clear danger signs, but things John had ignored. John, the Doctor, had ignored.

John barely noticed as Sally Donovan ran past him, waving to get Lestrade’s attention. “Detective Inspector!” she shouted.

“Yes, Donovan?” Lestrade walked closer to her. Sherlock was standing just out of John’s range of senses, his body drawn up with his chin held high.

“We have a fresh one. Male, mid twenties. They think he may have jumped off of the roof of the hospital.” She grimaced, running a hand through her hair. “They want us over there ASAP to confirm.”

John’s mind was temporarily deafened by the roaring in his ears. Unable to even acknowledge the doctor’s voice in his ear, John thumbed his mobile off and ran over to Sally, grasping her arms. “Where?” Sally stared at him as if he had grown a new head. John resisted the urge to shake her, his eyes wide. “Where is he?”

“Three blocks away, not far at all.” John let go of her immediately and darted off, his feet slapping against the pavement as he ran. He didn’t bother waiting for Sherlock. He knew that as much as Sherlock loved him, he didn’t understand John’s devotion to his patients. Sherlock could rationalize why John did what he did - just could not, would not understand.

His mind was flashing through all the scenarios. Was it Eric? Was it not Eric? If it wasn’t Eric, who was it? Why was his heart thumping so fast? Forcing all the thoughts down, he checked the street sign and adjusted his course slightly. It wasn’t long before he saw the scene, the people, and he darted closer. Showing his credentials as a doctor was enough to allow him to get close to the scene to where he could see who it was.

John’s heart dropped in his chest, and the roaring was back. Aside from the bloody halo ranging out from his head, Eric’s face looked like he might just be sleeping. John knew he would never wake up. The stark black hair, worn just a bit too long, matted with blood. The eyes wide and unseeing. The broken way his arms and legs were arranged, as if everything was made out of china and had been dropped off a shelf. In a way, it had - except it had jumped.

He glanced back up at Eric’s face one last time. His stomach plummeted, seeing Sherlock’s face instead of Eric’s in that quick glance. John let out a painful moan, his legs buckling without hitting the ground. Looking up, he saw Sherlock’s face above him and realized it was the consulting detective’s arms supporting him. Trust Sherlock to not end up too far behind him. Lestrade and Sally were not far behind him. Lestrade was panting.

Scrabbling to grab onto as much of Sherlock as he could, John’s hands sought to touch, to feel, to make sure that Sherlock was alive and real and right there with him instead of that dead and broken body laying on the pavement not far from where they stood. The more rational part of him separated from the panicking creature he had become, advising him that he was starting to hyperventilate and that his body temperature and heart rate were increasing. The less rational part made a vulgar movement in its direction. Sherlock wrapped his arms more steadily around the shorter man, trying to calm the shaking. “I’m right here. I’m okay,” he murmured into John’s ear, his low voice soothing. John’s body gave a final convulsive shudder before he seemed to calm down just a notch. It was enough to turn in Sherlock’s arms to face Lestrade.

“Want to tell me what that was about, eh?” Lestrade asked, his hands briefly on his thighs to allow him to catch his breath. Donovan merely shot Sherlock a death glare. John surmised that, as usual, she viewed everything as Sherlock’s fault. John mutely shook his head even as Sherlock helped him back to his feet. His body was cold all over. Shock, John mused. The trembling, the shaking was coming next. The loss of control.

“You’ll want to call Dr. Aaron Meo,” he finally said. His voice was soft, stuttering, so unlike his normal tone that he could feel Sherlock frown.

“Who’s that?” Donovan came closer, peering at John. She had gone from shooting death glares at Sherlock to actually looking a bit concerned about John’s well-being.

“His doctor,” John answered finally. He could not meet her eyes - not hers, or Sherlock’s, or even Lestrade’s. He stared down at the pavement, focusing on the areas devoid of blood or chaos. “His name is Eric Simmons. He is - was - a patient in the oncology ward here. Aaron Meo is his doctor.”

Something in Sherlock’s posture changed, leading John to believe he had put together all of the puzzle pieces and discovered another trigger to John’s shift in behavior. He squeezed the arm he had put around John’s waist to help him, pressing his face into the crook in John’s neck, supporting him wordlessly. Abruptly, Sherlock let go of John, lingering briefly to make sure he could stand on his own. He looked up at Lestrade. “We’re leaving.”

“What? Sherlock, I need you to take another look at that lady back there!” Lestrade’s voice was a half-shout and Donovan was giving Sherlock a rather smug, irritated look.

“You should go, Sherlock.” John’s voice was more of a mumble than he would have liked, and he forced his posture straighter to hopefully dispel any and all worries Sherlock might have had. A cutting look from the pale blue eyes were all that it took to destroy his illusions and John let out a sigh.

“John is more important.” Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s waist and walked until they could hail a cab, leaving Lestrade gaping at their backs and Donovan wondering if they’d hallucinated the whole thing. The very real dead body not far from here partially dispelled the idea of an illusion, but Donovan was afraid that the Freak was turning all too human. Things like that were unnatural.

The cab ride to 221B Baker Street was silent and rather uneventful, except Sherlock refused to let go of John’s hand and had twined their fingers tightly together. Occasionally Sherlock would caress John’s hand with his thumb, causing John to twitch. Sherlock had never been the overly affectionate type, especially not in public. John gave him a sidelong glance, partially wondering if he had come down with something. That could possibly explain his behavior.

“I’m not sick,” Sherlock said quietly as he helped John out of the cab. He even paid the driver. John’s eyes narrowed even further and he gave his boyfriend a look up and down, even attempting a surreptitious check of Sherlock’s forehead. That earned him an eyeroll as Sherlock walked towards the door, using his key instead of waiting for John to dig his out. Manhandling John up the stairs, he pushed him towards the couch and helped him lay down. John stared at him suspiciously as Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom.

When Sherlock emerged, he had a small cloth in his hand. He reached over and laid it on John’s forehead. John flinched at the cold touch of the cloth and involuntarily shrunk away from it. Sherlock’s hand on his cheek was soothing. “It’s shock, John. Your heart rate has increased and you’re flushed. Probably tachycardic.” A finger traced small designs on John’s cheek as the shorter man relaxed into Sherlock’s ministrations.

After a few minutes, Sherlock removed the cloth, apparently satisfied with the change in John’s demeanor. He didn’t feel different. His mind was still a bit fuzzy. Processing what Sherlock had said about shock, things made a lot more sense. “It’s actually called an acute stress reaction,” he muttered automatically, shifting to become more comfortable on the couch. John could practically hear Sherlock rolling his eyes across the room.

John stiffened when he felt Sherlock’s arms underneath him. “I’m not an invalid, you know!” he protested, gripping Sherlock involuntarily as the taller man helped sit him up.

“I wasn’t going to carry you.” Sherlock looked a bit put-out at the idea. As if he would stoop to carrying John. John rolled his eyes and stood up, trying to straighten his jumper and jeans. He had sweated through the jeans but not through his jumper. For that, he was thankful - it was one of his favorites. John made small sounds of protest as Sherlock steered him towards the first floor bedroom.

“Mine is fine,” he argued, unable to resist Sherlock’s firm hand in the small of his back. Sherlock’s eye roll was exaggerated this time and John snorted in response.

With firm yet gentle hands, Sherlock undressed John and re-dressed him in simple, soft cotton pyjamas. The less coherent part of John wanted to protest. The more coherent part enjoyed this version of Sherlock - the caring, gentle version that only appeared in rare circumstances. Sherlock helped him onto the bed and under the covers, not bothering to tuck him in. Quickly Sherlock stripped and changed into his pyjama bottoms. John watched him languidly, enjoying his boyfriend’s lean body.

Lifting the covers, Sherlock scooted closer to John and gently tugged at him until John was half on top of him, one of his legs slotting between Sherlock’s. Long, supple fingers traced gentle, butterfly-light designs on John’s back and slowly he felt his body start to unwind.

John closed his eyes and flinched as the sight of Eric’s dead, unseeing body flashed into his mind. He felt Sherlock lean down and kiss the top of his head. John took solace in the contact. How Sherlock had known this was exactly what John needed he would never know. Although Sherlock thought himself distant, a sociopath, John had learned quite a bit about the mysterious man over the course of their relationship. Sherlock thought himself rubbish with relationships, but had learned to read John fairly well. The two had been together as a couple for over a year a half and were fast approaching two years. Unconsciously, John started to trace designs on Sherlock’s bare stomach.

“He was a patient of yours, wasn’t he?” Sherlock’s voice was gentle, and John paused his hand briefly before continuing to trail his finger across Sherlock’s bare skin.

“Yes.” John swallowed. Sherlock shifted slightly, settling them both into a position where Sherlock could lean down and nuzzle John if he felt like it. John felt Sherlock’s nose and lips press gently into his hair.

“Terminal cancer?” John looked up at Sherlock, seeing a hint of shame in his eyes. Although they were often described as icy, John saw no traces of Sherlock’s normally acerbic personality lingering there now.

“Yes,” he answered simply, looking away.

“I happened to see the text when it arrived on your mobile.” Sherlock coughed carefully, and John could feel his body stiffen ever so slightly. John’s finger trailed across Sherlock’s rippling abdominal muscles. John himself wasn’t surprised. He supposed he would have been surprised if Sherlock had not read the text message. The day Sherlock stopped sticking his nose into everyone else’s business was the day the world ended.

“He was just 27, Sherlock.” John’s body tensed, and then relaxed again as he exhaled slowly. “He had so far to go. He had overcome so much.”

“You feel powerless.” Sherlock’s fingers were threaded through John’s hair, stroking gently as he listened to John’s breathing. John nodded against Sherlock’s chest, ignoring the rasp of his barely-there stubble against Sherlock’s pale skin. Although canoodling was fun, this wasn’t the time.

“Who wouldn’t,” John muttered. “There was nothing I could do. It - it was like...”

“It was like Reichenbach, all over again,” Sherlock finished for him. John looked up at him, startled. “Oh come on John, even you must have noticed the similarities. Jumping off of a hospital. Not too different in age, or even general appearance.” Sherlock snorted.

John’s retort was cut off by the ringing of his mobile. Sherlock reached over, muttering something about lazy detective inspectors and answered with a curt hello. His eyes narrowed and he handed it to John. “It’s for you.”

“You okay, John?” Lestrade’s voice rang familiar in his ears, and John scowled at the bedding. He didn’t want to be talking to Lestrade.

“I suppose so. What do you need?” John shifted his position slightly away from Sherlock, allowing for a more comfortable positioning of the mobile.

“He left a letter. It’s addressed to you.” Lestrade’s voice made John’s mouth go dry and his hand started to shake a little. He felt Sherlock’s hand stroking through his hair again, calming and comforting.

“Text it to me, would you?” John was proud his voice didn’t shake. Barely hearing Lestrade’s affirmative, he hung up the mobile and slumped back against Sherlock.

He glanced up at Sherlock. “He probably needs you, you know.”

Sherlock shrugged. “You’re more important than the Work. There will always be Work. You might not always be around.”

John stared at him mutely for a few seconds before inching forward to plant a kiss on the dark haired man’s lips. The kiss was slow and gentle, their lips moving drowsily against each other’s as if they had all the time in the world. John broke it off after a bit and laid back against Sherlock’s side. “I love you, you know,” he murmured, his eyes starting to close. Now that the adrenaline was fading from his body, his body was protesting the day’s stress and activities and turning limp and uncooperative.

“I know.” Sherlock’s lips pressed into John’s hair. “I love you too.”

John smiled and drowsily drifted off to sleep.

 

_To: John_

_Dr. Watson,_

_I am sorry. I can’t live like this. I know you’re going to try and blame yourself for it, but it’s not your fault. You helped me. You got me through the past four years. The past four years were amazing. I got to meet Amanda and fall in love and see what the future could be like. I got more time with my family. With my friends. Time I wouldn’t’ve had without you._

_Cancer robbed me of that. That is not your fault. You didn’t know how the dice would roll, how things would play out._

_I want to thank you. Despite what you might think, you were there with me in my final moments. You gave me the courage to take things into my own hands. I didn’t want a slow decline - I would rather go out on my own terms, and without much pain. You know that. You know me._

_Please continue giving your patients - both past and present - the same gift you gave me. The courage to know that they can do what they didn’t think they can. That even if we may not live, we can still fly, whether it is in heaven or on Earth._

_Thank you._

_Eric_


	10. Opportunities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why. Won’t. It. WORK. Sherlock is angry and frustrated at a case that simply won’t come together. He has all the pieces, yet cannot make them fit. He knows what will make it better - a single vial, pulsing through his veins. Yet there’s something stopping him. Someone.

Sherlock threw himself onto the couch, ignoring John's presence. There was something there - something there, something he couldn't see. What was wrong with him! He growled in frustration and flipped over onto his back, his fingertips rubbing frustrated patterns into his temple. "I'm missing something," he snarled at the air. Part of him heard John sigh and walk into the kitchen, flipping on the kettle as he did so (making tea, then - unnerved by Sherlock's behavior, natural response). They had been on the trail of a particularly vicious serial killer for the past three weeks and the victim they had just found had provided what Sherlock was certain was the last few pieces of the puzzle.

Yet there was so much distracting him, cluttering up his mind with inane thoughts and questions. Three weeks, one day, seven hours, forty three minutes, and nine seconds ago, he had kissed John. On the lips. And John had kissed him back. Sherlock groaned, lifting his head and dropping it back down on the edge of the couch with a thunk. No matter what he did, no matter what he tried, he could not shove the thoughts pertaining that event to the back of his mind palace. They continued to pop up at inappropriate moments. No need to give Donovan ammunition if he emerged from a crime scene with an erection. He would never heard the end of it.

The worst problem was that he knew what would make it better. All it took was a brief text, some cash, and a single vial that he could draw up in a syringe and depress into his veins. The chemical would flow, his neurotransmitters rising to meet the challenge, ideas and theories coming quickly and without abandon. The thoughts that had been plaguing him would go to the wayside and the answer would come to him, clear as day. It was what he needed, what he wanted. His body vibrated with the thought that what it so desired was so close to coming to fruition. But he couldn't. He couldn't send the text. Could not bring himself to grab his phone.

What frustrated Sherlock the most was that he had no idea what was stopping him. "Sherlock?" John stood in the kitchen (slightly out of view - nervous), a mug of tea in his hands. He walked over to the coffee table (anxious, limping slightly - concerned, something unreadable - what is it?!) and carefully placed the mug down on the table. "Some tea, if you're up to drinking it." He turned around and walked back towards the kitchen (getting his own mug). Sherlock's eyes zeroed in on his arse. It was firm, muscle still there from the military and from chasing criminals around London with - Sherlock lifted his head and let it fall. He was not supposed to be having those thoughts. Perhaps a concussion was in order. That would make him stop thinking.

Then his mind went towards the image of John leaning close to lecture him about safety, the image of tanned fingertips sliding over alabaster skin - "AGH!" Sherlock cried out in frustration, flipping himself into a ball and scrunching his eyes tightly shut. Unconsciousness would be preferable. "John, bring me my phone." He extended a hand and then realized what was wrong with that plan. "On the other hand, don't." John giving him his phone would likely involve skin to skin contact (would he use it as an excuse for a caress?) and with the way Sherlock's mind (and libido - hopefully John wouldn't notice) was going, that was very much a bad idea.

When Sherlock stood up, John was standing near the counter, his own cuppa in his hands and a bemused expression on his face. There was fondness lingering there, affection present in the crinkle of his eyes. Forcing his thoughts away from John he dug his phone out of the pocket of his Belstaff and stomped back to the couch, ignoring the slight smile on John's face at his childish actions (he finds them amusing - endearing, almost). The text to one of his oldest and most reliable dealers was sent in seconds. He needed the clarity, the rush the drug provided.

John wanted things. He wanted Sherlock (evidence in the kiss, the fondness with which he spoke to Sherlock, looked at him - the lingering touches, the soft smiles). Neither had mentioned the kiss afterwards, yet it had been on Sherlock's mind constantly. For the first two weeks it had been easier to ignore. The serial killer left quite a bit of evidence behind (not even Anderson could botch some of it up, although he had given it a fair try) and Sherlock had raced off on several promising leads. Despite everything he did, he came up with nothing. It was immensely frustrating. Now that they had stagnated - nothing new, confirming that Sherlock had all the pieces (just couldn’t them together) - his mind had gone on a rampage to sabotage him. It was immensely frustrating.

"I'm going out," Sherlock declared, standing up. He checked his clothes (not that the dealer would care, no one did in that part of town, but going out in his dressing gown would alert Mycroft to his plans) and grabbed his coat. "Don't wait up."

"Sherlock." John's voice was exasperated. "I'm coming with. Get a new lead?"

John blinked when Sherlock swirled around and lifted his head. "You're not coming with me."

"Damn right I am," John growled. His posture had tensed and his eyes were narrowed (he knows something’s wrong). Damn him for being observant at the most inappropriate of times. Damn John Watson. "You can't chase criminals by yourself, Sherlock."

"I just need some air...?" Sherlock offered. It was an excuse he had heard John use several times. He hoped that John didn't notice the questioning intonation and swore inside his head. Giving John what he hoped was a winning smile (worked on Molly and she adores him - would it work with John?) he strode towards the door. Sherlock made it down to the bottom of the steps before he heard the door to 221B open (stopped to grab his jacket, then - anticipating being out for a while) and he broke into a run. If he was lucky, he would be out of John's eyesight before the army doctor made it down the stairs.

Luck was on his side and he had made it into an alleyway before John made it downstairs. Inwardly Sherlock swore. If that didn't make his behavior appear even more suspicious, he had no idea what would. Not that it mattered. All he needed was that one meeting, that one vial, and things would be back in place. He could stop thinking about John, stop thinking about - about kissing and tanned skin and lips and - stop. Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed forcefully in and out, bending his treacherous body to his will. Meeting his dealer with an erection was most definitely out.

Thankfully the location was close. Careful to avoid CCTV cameras (John didn't have Mycroft's contact information - Sherlock deleted it each and every morning before John woke up, but being seen without John while on a case would arouse suspicion), he made his way towards the small alcove his dealer preferred. Moments later, with two small slights of hand, the vial he had desperately craved was in his hand. He clenched his fist around it, comforted by the feel of the metal lid and the glass. "The way I like it?" he asked, careful to keep his voice low to prevent being overheard. A sharp nod from the dealer and Sherlock was on his way, slipping the vial into one of the larger pockets so that it could not be seen through the thick wool.

All that was left was a few simple steps. Head back to 221B. Find his syringe kit hidden behind the mantle. Wait until John went to - Sherlock's brain froze. John. John would be there, he would see Sherlock. Sherlock, high on cocaine, his pupils blown wide, his movements jerky, erratic yet his mind clearer than ever, the deductions amazing. Yet there would be no ‘Brilliant!’ or ‘Amazing!’ Nothing but a silent, guilt-inducing stare. If John even stayed. Suddenly aware that his body had froze along with his mind, he shifted so that he was hidden in an alleyway, his mind working to its top capabilities.

They had never talked about Sherlock's history. Sherlock suspected that John had learned a few things from Lestrade (the two often went out to pubs together - male bonding time, boring, yet necessary for John's well being), but he had never directly asked Sherlock about what he had done. Would he be disgusted by Sherlock's drug usage? He was a doctor. He saw the outcomes of these drugs, saw what they did to people. He would leave Sherlock, that much was certain.

Pulling the vial out of his coat pocket he stared at it. Stared at the fluid inside, clear and harmless looking but with the power to destroy all that he had worked for. Leaning back against the wall of the small road he let his head tilt back, his mind flashing back through the memories. John staring at him and then breaking into a wide grin, proclaiming something 'Brilliant!' or 'Amazing!' and sending Sherlock's stomach into twisted knots. The crinkles at the corner of his eyes when he laughed or smiled. The soft smile he wore while he looked at Sherlock when he thought Sherlock wasn't watching him. The gentle touches of John's fingertips to Sherlock's arm the last time Sherlock was injured. The tenderness of his lips and how they had moved under Sherlock's when Sherlock had kissed him. He felt warmth unfurl in his belly and he clenched his teeth to avoid groaning as the memories assaulted him.

He couldn't lose that. How could he - he couldn't. Sherlock sat where he was, uncertain of how to proceed. The logical choice was to destroy the vial (easy to do without arousing suspicion, yet impossible to do without attracting attention on the CCTV cameras), then to go home to John. John, who was all too perceptive of Sherlock's moods and emotions. Would he even be able to hide what he had done? What he had been so close to doing? And the case - the four dead women (stupid enough to trust the man who killed them, yet Sherlock felt for them all the same, although he never told John) - he failed them. He couldn't help them like this, his mind muddled by so many thoughts. He was at a dead end.

"Sherlock?" John panted (he'd been running - looking for someone - looking for him?). Sherlock's body convulsed in a shudder and he drew farther back into himself. His knees were pulled up to his chest, his head buried in his jacket (damn his curls - recognisable anywhere, Mycroft must have seen him on the CCTV somehow, or had someone trailing him). "There you are." (That couldn't be a smile he heard in John's voice, nor tenderness, or affection - impossible). Sherlock heard footsteps, felt them stop not far from where he was crouched into a ball. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest (fear, adrenaline - fight or flight, flight flight flight).

Standing up as fast as he could Sherlock made to dart past John, only to underestimate how close the army doctor was standing. Within seconds he felt his wrist grabbed and he was spun around and pinned to the wall, his arms pinned up near his head. Arms. Hands. Sherlock stifled a moan. The vial was still in his hand - the damned vial, the damned vial that would ruin everything. "Where are you going?" John demanded. Sherlock kept his gaze as far away from John as he could manage. He hoped the fear he felt at his situation was at least kept off his face. Hopefully he wasn't that incompetent.

Sherlock felt the air shift as John's eyes went to the ball of Sherlock's fist. Imperceptibly the hand tightened further, the knuckles white around the vial's contents. The hands on his wrists softened and one arm slid around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock stiffened as the touch sent electricity sparking up his spine and sent his brain into a spiral of chaos. "Let's go home," John murmured, leading him carefully as Sherlock attempted to not stumble over his own feet. It wasn't making sense. John was supposed to be angry with him. He didn't know what was in Sherlock's hand, then. Yet John was smart - he assumed, if he didn’t know.

The walk back to Baker Street wasn't far. Sherlock hadn't gone much more than half a mile (his dealers were close - wasn't too odd for him to visit them if he needed), but it felt like forever. What kept him going was John's gentle hand (warm, not pressuring, soft and encouraging, not guilt-ridden, comforting) on the small of his back, guiding him forward. They had reached the door before Sherlock had been able to get his mind under a semblance of control, fragile though it was.

John's hand left Sherlock's back as soon as they were through the door to their flat. It felt strangely cold (John's hand wasn't that warm - loss of affection, then, loss of feeling). Without a word Sherlock tugged off his coat (awkward, vial still clenched in hand - what to do with vial - god) and settled in his armchair, his legs tucked up against his chest (vial clenched in his fist, arms wrapped securely around legs, face as blank as possible - defenseless, please don't hurt me). "Sherlock." John's voice was soft, tender (he wants to talk - talk about what? he's leaving - got to be it, wants to break it gently - contrasts with his demeanor - only option). "Look at me."

"No." Sherlock's voice was quiet and it sounded hurt and weak and he hated it the moment it came out of his mouth. It sounded small, it sounded like him as a child when - when...his mind stuttered and failed, the memory blank. Deletion, then. The memory was gone, the feelings intact. Incomplete attempt to wipe something painful from his memory. Sherlock heard John make a painful noise in his throat and wondered what expression was on his face. He buried his head farther in his lap, hiding it (John can't see it. Can't see him being weak. He was not 'Brilliant' or 'Amazing' now. Merely broken).

Movement - John came closer, settling down on the floor next to Sherlock's armchair (hurts him - slight grimace in the way he moves, bad for his leg). "Sherlock." Again, his name. Why did John enjoy saying it? (His voice caresses the consonants, the vowels in turn.) A gentle touch on Sherlock's chin, a finger (rough - his trigger finger, then) lifted Sherlock's head. Nothing could bring him to meet John's gaze (shrink away from his touch - he's going to leave, why doesn't he just do it, he's making it worse). "I'm not leaving."

That was enough to send Sherlock's head jerking back, lifting his eyes to meet John's, startled like a deer. "Why not?" Not the right question, not the wrong question. A question. Petulant. Questioning.

"Open your hand." John's fingers tugged at Sherlock's, the clenched fist resting between John's steady palms. Painfully Sherlock unfurled his fingers, dreading the moment John saw its contents. The man was so good at keeping his face unreadable, even to Sherlock (years of military habit, good at dealing with those he disliked). He felt the vial removed from his palms, saw John regard it carefully. That damned mask. What was he thinking? Was he disappointed? Why wasn't he leaving? "I'm proud of you."

If Sherlock had been an undignified peasant, his mouth would have fallen open in shock. As he was indeed a dignified Holmes, he settled for staring at John with his eyes wider than he thought humanely possible before attempting to cover for his actions with a snort and trying to hide his face back in his lap like a petulant child. "None of that, now." Firm fingers on his chin kept him from completing the action as desired. (Proud? What could he be proud of? Sherlock had fallen, fallen hard, bought drugs and had been this close to using them. To injecting them into his veins, to sending him spiraling, to flying, to...) "Sherlock," John said softly. "Look at me." The same request as before, but Sherlock lifted his head this time, met his soft, searching gaze.

Whatever John saw sent pain flickering across his face before he schooled it back into its stoic expression, warm and soft like butterscotch or caramel (sand and warm deserts, comforting, warming - waiting?). "I can't see it," Sherlock snarled, his vitriol back and directed at himself. "I have all the clues, all the puzzle pieces, yet I cannot put them together. My mind is - muddled! And it's your fault." Sherlock glared at John (he's not mad - his lip is quirking - is he amused? Why is he amused? None of this is funny? Is it?).

"Why is it muddled?" John asked patiently. Pointedly Sherlock looked down at John's fingers and then back up to John's lips and then his eyes. John lifted an eyebrow. "You kissed me, you know."

"You kissed me back," Sherlock muttered.

"That would be the point of kissing," John pointed out amicably.

"I can't think about anything else. All I can think about is your skin and how different it is, how things feel so warm when you touch me or kiss me or I even think about it." Sherlock let out a frustrated groan, his hands on his head, ruffling his curls. "I need clarity, I need speed." He looked longingly at the vial in John's hand.

"But you didn't take it. I know you had the time. I called Mycroft right after you left but even then it took me a while to find you." John's look was appraising, examining Sherlock and his attributes at the most basic level (what was he looking for? What did he see? Was it good? Bad?).

"I couldn't." Sherlock's voice was a murmur. "You would leave, and..." he trailed off, miserable. "Your place is here." There was more, and Sherlock knew it, but attempting to put those feelings into words left him feeling like he had sandpaper on his tongue and down his trachea. They simply wouldn't come and it was painful to try.

"With you," John clarified. Sherlock dipped his head slightly in a nod. "I wouldn't leave, you know." Sherlock snorted his disbelief and turned his head away. "I would be disappointed. But I don't think I could leave." Slowly John trailed a finger down the side of Sherlock's face, tracing his cheekbone and his jawbone in turn. "I'm going to try something, okay?" Sherlock looked at him, skeptical, yet nodded all the same.

Sherlock inhaled sharply as he felt soft, warm lips touch his. It was like there was fire racing underneath his skin, electrifying and frightening at the same time. His mind whirled, overwhelmed and underwhelmed by the touch and the caress at the same time. John's hands were gripping his wrists gently, his thumbs caressing Sherlock's pale skin. It was then that Sherlock felt the last puzzle slide into place and the solution emerged. He pulled back and hopped over the side of the couch, the vial forgotten in the frenetic race to get the information distributed. His hand flew as he texted Lestrade and grabbed his jacket. "I've got it, John! I know who did it! The gardener." Sherlock shook his head, curls flying as he darted about the flat. Through the confusion had come clarity and things made sense again. He could explore how John's touch (and lips) made things clearer later. He had a murderer to catch.

John's eyes crinkled and his face lit up as he smiled at Sherlock, at the man he always knew would come through for him. "Brilliant."


	11. Thirty Three Percent

He steepled his fingers underneath his chin, ready to return his focus to the problem at hand, when he heard the movement of the boy in the bed across from him. It was the sixth time he had turned over in the past five minutes and Sherlock was nearly at the end of his patience. "Will you stop doing that," he hissed.

The other boy winced so loudly that Sherlock could hear it from across the room. "Sorry," he mumbled, clearly embarrassed. "I just can't sleep."

"Obviously," Sherlock drawled, staring up at the ceiling. The room fell silent again, and he could not help but feel hopeful about the remainder of the night. He had been sharing a dormitory room with John Watson for the better part of a week and already he was consumed with ideas of how to force the blonde-haired teen to leave forever. Too bad he was unable to gain access to the various chemicals and animals he needed to put his plans into action. It was a matter of time, however, for he had blackmailed his older brother with pictures of his escapades with a particular member of the police force and said older brother had dutifully agreed to provide the aforementioned materials.

He had just settled into his mind palace when he heard the noise that indicated that John was rolling over again. Exhaling in a huff, he removed his fingers from their steepled position and shot an irritated glare in John's direction. "Can you not sit still?" Sherlock snapped. He watched as John pulled his duvet off and walked into the small area that served them as a kitchen. He was obviously sleepy, for his face was drawn and he rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. The blonde-haired teen turned on the small kettle and made a mug of tea for himself, sitting in the flimsy chair that he liked and sipping from the mug after he fixed the drink with milk and a small bit of sugar.

"Don't be a bastard," John muttered, sipping his mug gratefully, his fingers wrapped around the warmth. Sherlock stared at him for a few moments, reading what he could out of the teenager's expression and body language.

"You have nightmares." It was a statement, not a question, confirmed by the way John's body tensed up at Sherlock's words. "You're afraid to go to sleep."

John stared blankly down at his tea for a few seconds before he sighed, the tension seeping out of his muscles. "Yeah. Yeah I do," he confirmed, his voice defeated. Sherlock had not moved his gaze from the other boy and he continued watching for a few seconds more. Despite Sherlock's intention (prompt John into shutting up and going to sleep), it instead seemed to prompt a different behavior. "My Mum tried to kill me," he said quietly. Sherlock groaned internally and rolled his eyes. Sentiment. Of bloody course. "Stabbed me in the shoulder, six months ago. Harry got a cut in the stomach."

Sherlock tried to think what implement could kill him the quickest and was the closest to him. He absolutely detested conversations of the sort and he had the feeling that once John got started, he would not stop. "It's post traumatic stress disorder," John said with a shrug. "I know, you don't care." The curly-haired man agreed wholeheartedly with John's words, but Mycroft had informed him several times that those kind of comments were generally sarcastic and it was beneficial to not respond with an affirmative. Instead he made a noncommittal noise, shifting slightly on the sheets of his own bed.

Mycroft had insisted on removing the sofa Sherlock had smuggled in. Who cared that it impeded John's access to his bed? They all needed to make sacrifices for science. Despite that, Mycroft had gone to the head of Sherlock's dorm and when Sherlock had returned from his classes the sofa had been gone. That combined with the numerous lectures he had received had increased Sherlock's determination to slip a toad into his brother's bed next time he was home. Nonetheless, the nearest holiday was all too far away, and he had other problems to solve. Like that of the boy who was staring morosely at the cup of tea.

"Lay in bed," Sherlock said brusquely.

"Why?" John muttered, draining the last dregs of the cup. "There's no point if you're just going to keep yelling."

"I do not yell," Sherlock reminded him, a hint of sharpness to his voice. He never yelled, he merely pointed things out. Loudly. As John sighed his agreement and stuck the mug in the sink, Sherlock stood up and searched for what he wanted. John got back into bed, the cotton of his pyjamas silent as he slid under the cotton sheets. "Do close your eyes, John."

"Least you're using my name now," John mumbled. He even sounded sleepy, yet somehow his body would not give him the release he needed so he could drift off into sleep.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was searching for where he had last sat his violin case. Mycroft had insisted on him bringing it to the sodden school and now he could not find it. “Be quiet,” he murmured, lowering his voice to the pitch he had discovered worked quite well to calm others down. It seemed to work, over the next few minutes, for John was a third less restless than he had been moments prior. It was something Sherlock would remember for the future.

He hummed, pleased, when he finally found his violin, pulling the case out from underneath the pile of books it had been supporting. There was a minor crash and he glanced around to ensure that no one had heard it, ignoring John’s wide and blinking eyes. No yelling, no shouting - Sherlock was safe. He sat the violin case on his bed and pulled the instrument out, tuning it softly. The bow was still well taken care of from when he had last used it - which was beneficial, for it had been weeks since Sherlock had been so inspired.

“Lay down and close your eyes,” he said softly, the rich, baritone cadence of his voice caressing the syllables. It was delightful how quickly that worked, for John immediately seemed to melt into the bed. Now for the final challenge. Settling the violin on his shoulder, Sherlock’s mind flipped through his mental list of compositions. He settled on a soothing melody.

Sherlock did not notice that he hummed along with the music as it spilled from the violin, nor did he notice how he swayed as he played, his arms making sweeping motions as he stroked the bow across the strings. He did not notice John’s utter captivation with his performance, absorbed in the music as both boys were. By the time Sherlock had finished playing, John had practically melted into the bed and was fast asleep, his face slack and peaceful, and Sherlock felt oddly at peace. It was a feeling he had never experienced, and it was not something he was comfortable with.

Staring down at John Watson, Sherlock attempted to figure out what was so different with this man. He had played for others before, serenaded the odd person to sleep or into a trance when they would not leave him alone. But none had ever affected him as this quiet, unassuming boy was doing so. His heart felt like it was full to bursting with a contentment that seemed to lie so close to his bones that it was indistinguishable, like a marrow that existed outside of the hollow of the skeletal system.

Deciding to set the thoughts and feelings aside for later examination, he paused, looking over at the boy on the other side of the room. “Good night,” he murmured, settling into his bed. Sherlock slept deeply, the first time in a long time.


End file.
